To Love or Leave
by Father of Understanding
Summary: Alfred asks Arthur if he's ever fallen in love. Arthur remembers days past and one of his favorite queens. (Sorry, but it's been a while since I put something here, and I'm not good at summaries or titles.)


**I do not claim to own Hetalia. I wish I did, but, alas, I don't.**

 **So, I had this idea in my history class (I want to gouge out Henry VIII's eyes with a wooden spoon), and I just had to write it.**

* * *

"Hey, Artie?"

"Don't call me that."

"Have you ever loved someone?"

Arthur shot Alfred a mildly offended look. "Of course. Back in my heyday, I was quite the stud."

The blond American nodded, eyes glazed over. "That's nice."

Green eyes narrowed slightly, Arthur shook the younger nation. "Oi, git. You alright?"

"Hmmm?"

He rolled his eyes and stuck his finger in Alfred's ear. Alfred shrieked and flinched back. Arthur said, "So you _are_ alive. Pity. I was hoping to reconquer you."

Alfred mumbled unpleasant words. Arthur's smirk died, and he set his teacup down. "Do you want to talk, love?" He loosely gripped his younger's shoulder.

Alfred shook his head. "Nah. I'm good."

"You sure?"

"Yah. How 'bout you share your love life?"

Sensing Alfred's discomfort, Arthur conceded and focused the topic on himself. "I fell in love before I found you," he began, sitting back (with perfect posture, of course). "I believe she was born in the late 1510s, and what a difficult day that was. I remember she was the only other person who could see my friends, other than Norway and Romania."

"'Cause y'all are crazy."

Arthur ignored the jab and reminisced.

* * *

"Lovely weather for once, isn't it, milady."

Mary turned her head with a slight smile. "Arthur," she said. "It's a delight."

"The weather or my company?"

"Can it not be both?"

Arthur laughed and stood by his queen. The red and black velvets suited her. He took in her russet hair, her pale eyes, her distended belly covered by a dainty hand. A pang of grief and pity pierced his chest. "Milady, I—"

"How many times must I tell you to call me Mary?" She looked at him straight on. For not the first time, Arthur wondered how Philip, that Spanish bedswerver*, could have left her. She was beautiful with her red hair and blue eyes, milky skin and ruddy cheeks, as lovely as her mother and a much fairer version of her father. Granted, she had her own set of issues, but given her father and childhood, he wasn't surprised—everyone in the Tudor family had problems—but she was kind, intelligent, clever, and passionate.

The personification rubbed the back of his neck and flashed a coy smile. "A few more times, love. I find it difficult to adjust to. Previous kings have been a bit more . . . impersonal."

"Well, I am no king. I will be far better than my late brother, Edward, bless his soul." She crossed herself with a whispered prayer. Arthur followed with his own in memory of the young king. "And my child will be here soon. I'll give all of England something a prince, or princess, of course, to be proud of."

The earlier sensation returned, sharper. "My friend, my queen, Mary," Arthur began, hoping that stalling would clear his mind, "surely the time has passed by now for the babe to be born. Have you thought that maybe this pregnancy is . . . .a fluke?"**

Her warm expression froze over immediately, a look of anger and fear mixed in one. It broke his heart. "They're simply taking their time to come, Sir Kirkland. They will be here soon. God would not be so cruel to put me through all of this and not let me have a child at the end of it."

Arthur didn't bring up Catherine of Aragon's many pregnancies, of which only one bore fruit. He didn't mention Anne Boleyn's miscarriage of a son. He couldn't; his throat closed and choked the words down. Rather than act pragmatic, he fled. With a bow, he walked briskly to the door. Before it closed, he halted and looked back at her. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mary? Would you like to speak with Flying Mint Bunny?"

She had faced the horizon once more. He assumed she hadn't heard and went to leave, but she spoke. "If you could fetch some tea, Arthur, I would love to continue talking to you. Does an hour work?"

Arthur blushed slightly, and his face wouldn't stop grinning. "An hour is perfect. I will see you then."

* * *

As Arthur finished his story, a sense of sadness washed over him. Years of propaganda and hatred had tainted the memory of his dear Mary Tudor—he would _never_ touch a Bloody Mary drink for as long as England existed—and he wished things had ended differently, but as he looked back himself, he realized he didn't regret falling for her. Every moment spent together was worth it.

"If you came for advice, Alfred," Arthur said, "let me say that love is always worth it. No matter the pain it causes later—"

"This isn't very inspiring."

"—the memories will last forever, and there will come a day where you can look back and smile. So, love, tell me who the lucky fellow is."

Alfred turned a bright red. Arthur took a sip of tea, not expecting his brother to respond, especially while he drank. "Emma Watson."

Arthur spat out his tea.

* * *

*Bedswerver is an old Shakespearian insult that means "adulterer".

**Mary Tudor showed all the signs of pregnancy, but there never was a child. No one knows for sure what happened, though I've heard that it is believed that she wanted a child _so_ much that her body changed physiologically. Sounds fake, but okay.

 **Did you like it? Did you despise it? Let me know! It's always nice when people leave reviews. Feed my soul!**


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